


Ebb and Flow

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Bedwetting, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a combination for numerous prompts on the meme for Martin wetting the bed. </p>
<p>It was a secret. Something he'd kept well hidden and tucked away tightly in his chest. Until of course Douglas found out. And then it stopped being a secret, and turned into something a little different, but no less shameful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Water sports, D/s themes, humiliation, infantilism and nappies, and copious amounts of my customary hurt/comforty angst-fluff. You have been warned. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own, Cabin Pressure belongs to the delectable darling John Finnemore.

**Ebb and Flow**

It was an accident. 

It was why they called them accidents. _Little accidents_ , as his mother used to say when she thought it was cute, little four year old Martin sniffling against her lap, trousers soaked, skin clammy. She’d strip the sheets, replace them with crisp, dry, and most importantly clean ones, and tuck Martin back in as snug as a bug to fly in his dreams. 

That was, of course, before it become irritatingly embarrassing. Before four year old Martin morphed into a pre-pubescent teen still drenching his bed. And an adolescent boy sneaking downstairs to wash the offending garments before she could find out and shout, ashamed her son could not just _grow up._

But if he’d ever done anything in his life, it was certainly grow up. 

Maturity, or whatever it was the adults defined it as according to their moods at the time, was not something based on age, or perhaps even experience. He saw it as progression into independence, something he had managed to accomplish at an early age- he was, perhaps, the only twelve year old boy in his class who could use a washing machine, something he couldn’t neither be proud of, or wholly ashamed. 

Thusly when he considered it now, mum’s words ringing in his ears, he could not help but refute her claim, finding it completely unfair, and on some level, unjustifiable. 

However as unfair as it may have been, it certainly wasn’t unwarranted.

And of course, like every other man in their thirties staring in abject horror at their soggy bed sheets, Martin knew this. He just wasn’t willing to admit it. 

His pyjama’s clung to his legs, skin stinging with the chill as he clambered out of bed coltishly, peeling his garments off and leaving them in a squelchy pile on top of a used towel. It became almost a ritual, so habitual he was now more or less accustomed to the proceedings, the perfunctory reaction to waking up and realising your thighs were sticking to each other again. 

The embarrassed heat on his cheeks died to nothing but frigid acceptance as he striped the bed, folding the sheets around themselves into a small, inconspicuous ball to wane attention. He patted the mattress down with a towel before flipping it over with practised ease, all within a heavy sigh. He’d have to sneak down and stick the washing on before anyone else woke and saw him- but it was alright, he’d learnt which steps creaked and which floorboards groaned well enough to avoid them when slinking downstairs in the early hours of the morning. 

His skin grew cold very soon, thighs stinging and clammy to touch. But it’d be too noisy for a shower now, the rickety old thing pushing the rusty pipes beyond its limits. He’d wake everyone up, and they’d guess it was him- silly old Martin wetting the bed again.

_What a baby._

“What a baby,” he murmured, scrubbing his skin down with the towel, discarding it in the corner along with the rest of the laundry. He replaced the sheets, covered the duvet and slipped on a clean pair of boxers, feeling the soft, fresh cotton rub against his skin. The smell of washing powder surrounded him as he climbed into bed and pulled the covers around tight, snuggling into a chemically induced floral cocoon and hoping he could somehow fall back asleep. 

The clocked ticked by, reading 3:58am.

And by five, the sheets were wet again. 

****


	2. Chapter 2

He put it down to stress. 

And as every doctor did, when unable to sufficiently pin down the cause. He crossed off the other possible reasons as time went on, an overactive bladder, prostate inflammation, diabetes, hormones, and even the possibility that he’d inherited it from one of his parents- which was plausible enough, but probably unlikely. He’d never seen his father at the kitchen table, shamed and trying not to watch the washing machine go round and around as it erased all evidence of his embarrassment.

It almost seemed as if Martin was the only one who ever warranted any form of humiliation, whether intentional or not. 

Along the years however, Martin’s ability to adapt to the roadblocks life seemed determined to throw his way, developed this little blemish into something almost, but not quite, useful. He saw it as a scale, a way to gauge just how bad things could get for him, how stressed he could possibly be before his body starting protesting. 

He wet the bed during his O levels, mortified beyond belief to find a cooling, wet patch on his pyjama bottoms. And when failing his instrument ratings- so much so that he could see no other alternative than to pad the mattress down with layers, upon layers of towels. When money was low, he refused to drink before bed. When business was bad he placed down a rubber mat he’d managed to order discounted on the web. When Douglas took the opportunity to make a comment, a sly dig at Martin’s height, or his uniform, or the fact that he was still an unpaid pilot barely scraping by, he would squirm in front of the toilet, forcing out every last drop until he was wrung dry. 

Yes, it wasn’t the easiest thing to live with. But people made do with worse, and Martin wasn’t one to complain about what he had- considering the possibility that if he did, some form of karmic justice would smite him and take away his baked potatoes. Nevertheless, it may have warranted a few minor changes to the everyday schedule, but it wasn’t the end of the world. 

Sometimes it went, sometimes it didn’t.

The problem didn’t lie with dealing with his issue. On the contrary, it relied heavily on trying to keep the delicate matter a well kept and nurtured secret, something he could quite easily stuff away into a box in the back of his mind for safekeeping. Because Martin the unpaid pilot, man with a shoddy excuse for a van, emotionally stunted family and a grotty little attic above a prospect of bright, young, budding agricultural scientists, was bad enough without adding _bed wetter_ to the list. 

Nothing, no matter how much you dressed it up, sounded good when bed wetting was involved. And one hundred and fifty percent of Martin’s being believed that notion _thoroughly._

It also meant that being a pilot, someone whose job it was to fly around the world and stay in numerous hotels, was a little more difficult than originally perceived. It would have also been that tad bit more manageable if Carolyn released the company card long enough from her money pinching claws for Martin to book himself a room of his own, a bed he could soak unintentionally without the repercussion of Arthur, or god forbid, _Douglas_ , ever finding out. 

It wasn’t easy. But most times, Martin found another way to stamp this little thought down. 

Today wasn’t one of those times though. 

“Carolyn, you only booked two rooms!”

She nodded, handing Martin one of the sets of keys. “I did, as I do every other time we fly out.”

Douglas cocked an eyebrow. “It’s hardly news Martin.”

_Not today though. Oh god not today-_

He swallowed hard, fiddling with his cuffs. “Yeah alright, fine.

“I mean,” Douglas started, grinning wolfishly. “I’d happily share with Carolyn if only she wasn’t-”

“Thank you Douglas, that’s quite enough.”

“Oh but-”

“Douglas,” Carolyn cut in sickly sweet. “If you don’t zip that mouth of yours up right now, I won’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.”

Wisely, Douglas said nothing, his lips sewn tight by the smirk threatening to burst at the seams. 

Martin’s stomach wobbled, twisting on itself at the mere idea of sharing a bedroom with Douglas. They did before, it wasn’t a new occurrence. But more often than not, his problem was manageable, something he could contain with a few altered changes, no drinks and extra towels lain down just in case. And if they were to share a bed, which happened more times than to be considered professional, Martin would most likely skip out on sleep.

But at the time, there seemed nothing worrying enough to substantially stress him. He liked flying- and it was, bizarrely with MJN, strangely therapeutic. 

Today however, he was just feeling ill. The van had broken down, coughing up fumes whenever Martin attempted to start it, and thus business, the meagre thing it was, would fall. He woke up, blinking at the ceiling and praying to whatever deity listening to give him a break- to just for once, make everything ok. Or at least, help him get through the day. 

He looked at the keys. 

Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. 

“Alright there Skip?” Arthur asked, nudging the man with his elbow. “Budapest’s brilliant isn’t it?”

“We’ve only just got here,” he croaks, feeling a little helpless. 

“Yeah but it still brilliant. And the name’s funny as well- Budapest, who’d want to pest a Buddha?”

“Arthur please,” Carolyn interrupted, glaring at the man. “Not now. I’m tired, you three are annoying me and the only thing I want to do right now is down something frighteningly bright, and devastatingly alcoholic.” 

“Righteo. Do you think they have pineapple juice here?”

Martin watched them walk off, feeling his shoulders sink, boneless and lethargic. Douglas looked at him pointedly and Martin had to wonder if the man already new. 

Which was preposterous. 

_He couldn’t have._

Douglas smiled. “Dinner?”

No, not really. He felt sick. “Alright, then. What do you fancy?”

****


	3. Chapter 3

After the consumption of a rather hefty amount of stew, or something akin to stew but a little tastier, both he and Douglas began trudging back to the hotel, nursing full and content stomachs. Martin’s mind was light, floating listlessly in the flood of wine the restaurant seemed insistent on, which was nice enough, pleasantly so, but probably a bad idea in the long run. Douglas was in a good mood, and thus indulgent, smirking with poorly concealed amusement as Martin’s protests fell short; his glass topped yet again and drained once more, half out of graciousness and half out of resigned defeat. 

But the man took pity, and dragged Martin out of the small hole in the wall restaurant before the cooing waiters could seduce the poor guileless captain with more frightfully strong alcohol. 

Martin leant against him, shoulder to shoulder as Douglas opened the door to their room, feeling soupy and boneless. The door swung open and he was being hauled in indelicately, Douglas’ cheek against his face, his wispy hair tickling the corner of his eye. 

“Come on then, off to bed with you, lightweight.” Douglas shifted him to the bed, Martin sprawling across it, spread-eagled like a starfish. He rubbed his face against the soft sheets, sighing decadently as he stretched, arms cracking and shoulders popping. God that felt good. 

“Big...” Very big, and surprisingly lovely. 

_All to himself..._

Wait-

“You’re going to have to scoot over. Don’t fancy the floor today.”

He felt the bed dip, his stomach dropping and sloshing around heavily as Douglas’ knee came in sight. The man grunted, warm palms pressed under Martin’s arms as he rolled him over, manoeuvring the shorter man around until he was strewn across one side of the double bed.

_Double bed._

Martin groaned. 

“You didn’t drink that much Martin, really.” Douglas tutted, lips quirking upward in a smirk. God how he wanted to just swipe that smug grin away, Martin thought aimlessly, wondering if he could reach far enough to knock it right off. 

That would probably hurt though. 

Nevertheless, Douglas was right- he hadn’t had _that_ much to drink. Maybe enough to warrant slight tipsiness, but not blind incoherency. The least he could do was muster up some form of thought, or complaint.

“Why does Carolyn keep doing this?” He watched as the light behind his lids switched from florescent yellow to a dull orange. A lamp probably- the change was nice, subtle and calming. 

Douglas snorted. “Because she’s a money pinching witch who seems to take pleasure in tormenting the only two people capable of flying her plane. An optimistic masochist I think- Herc’s certainly got it cut out for him.” Martin felt a light pat on his calf. “Come on, shoes off the bed.”

“Just leave me here to wallow.”

Douglas pinched his leg. “Stop whinging and get your shoes off the bed. I have to sleep here as well you know, and I’d much rather sleep in a moderately, if we don’t think too hard about it, clean bed, then one with your dirty footprints all over like a mangy cat.”

“I’m not mangy,” Martin sniffed, rolling over and glaring at him. “How exactly am I-“ He stifled a yawn. “...mangy?”

“Scrawny, ginger and most likely a stray.” Douglas rolled off the bed to rummage through his bag for his toothbrush and t-shirt. Martin watched him head into the bathroom with heavy lids, his forearm draped over his face, feeling dozy and lightheaded. And when Douglas returned a moment later, minty-breathed and ready for bed, he was already asleep, snoring soundly into arm and waning into dream. 

****

He was dreaming. Or he wasn’t. He didn’t know. Caught between a dreamy limbo and a sense of drowsy awareness, he looked upon the dark behind his eyelids and found himself wondering if he was still asleep. What was the time? Was it morning yet? No it couldn’t be- it was still dark. 

It was awfully warm though-

He frowned, feeling his legs itch, ankles chafing against the scratchy bed sheet. His skin felt clammy, cold but wet, stinging with the contrast-

Eyes blinked open, cold realisation sinking in as the warm stain on the sheets spread outward, his bladder tingling, stomach clenching. His sides cramped, thighs protesting as they chafed together wetly, his piss cooling rapidly on his skin, trousers sodden and heavy.

_Oh god._

_Oh god no please-_

Fingers scrambled down, pressing, drifting nervously across the bed sheet until they-

Wet. Wet, wet- No-

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to god, to anything that this was just a dream- that this didn’t actually happen. That he didn’t just wet himself like a....like a....

Like a child.

_Why can’t you just grow up and act your age?_

_I am a-_

Martin forced his eyes open, feeling heavy and nauseous. His head thumped, temples throbbing in time with the pounding of his blood as the anxiety kicked in, heart hammering wildly against his ribcage. There he was, lying in a cooling puddle of his urine, hot and bothered and verging dangerously toward panic, all with his first officer sleeping before him, blissfully unaware of it all. 

He glanced, hoping the stain didn’t reach Douglas- how much did he drink last night? It couldn’t have been that much- no.

And how was he going to fix this? Going to worm his way out of this? He couldn’t change the sheets without Douglas waking and realising what he had done, but maybe he could blame it entirely on something else? Get up, grab a glass, say he spilt it on himself and the bed accidently- it was an accident, he didn’t wet himself. Grown men don’t wet themselves- they’re _grownups._

_I’m a grownup._

_That’s it- that’s what I’ll do, I’ll just get up now-_

The lamped flicked on and Martin was left staring into the curiously blank eyes of Douglas Richardson. 

Martin looked at Douglas. 

Douglas looked at the bed, then at Martin’s trousers. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop- the silence thickening between them as the tension wound around their necks again, and again, and again- 

Tightening, strangling. Oh god he couldn’t breathe. 

“Martin.”

And it broke. 

“I...I-I-I...I didn’t...” What was he supposed to say? He swallowed, feeling his throat constrict, skin heat terribly. He was sweating, cheeks blazing and yet his trousers were cold, his legs freezing beneath the flimsy, sodden duvet. 

Sodden, damp, wet- every possibly adjective had floated to his mind at that moment, descriptions, feelings, humiliation. 

He closed his eyes again, feeling sick. 

There was a dip beside him, and he cracked his eyes open to see Douglas rising from bed, standing on the other side, examining the damage. He looked expressionless, blank, save the customary arch of his eyebrow, indifferent to the situation. 

“Go jump in the shower,” Douglas eventually murmured, bringing those dark, dark eyes to him, gazing at him with something....something but nothing. Martin couldn’t remember the last time he felt this confused. 

“W-what?” he choked, eyes damp, just like everything else he seemed to touch. Douglas regarded him, not unkindly, and nudged his head in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Shower,” he repeated softly. “Go have a shower, now.”

_Now._

_Now- He means now. Move._

_I..._

Martin couldn’t move, sitting there, frozen like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car- impending doom. What was Douglas doing? Wasn’t he going to laugh like a normal person? Turn away in repulsion like any sane person would?

Douglas looked at him and said firmly. “ _Martin._ ”

Martin was startled into movement. He jumped off the bed and dashed into the bathroom, coltish in movement, still unable to grasp what had just happened. But when he peeled his clothes off, the sodden garments falling with a wet slap against the floor, and stepped under the scalding water cascading down his shoulders, he couldn’t spare a thought toward anything else. He simply stopped thinking and reached for the soap. 

Meanwhile, Douglas looked at the damp bed with a rising sense of bewilderment and a twinge in his gut. 

****


	4. Chapter 4

The water was hot. Painfully so as it spiked against his skin, but he minded little. It felt nice, refreshing almost as the sharp edge of heat prickled Martin’s body, blanched it before the wan skin stained red, a light crimson hue trailing down his neck like scarlet wisteria. The bathroom was foggy, the air warm and tacky. He could barely see, glimpsing at his feet, examining the arch, the bony point of his toes as they curled away from the scalding water which thundered down his back, numbing his shoulders entirely. 

It was an odd sensation, standing in that shower, rather unable to discern what it was he should have been feeling, what it was he was supposed to have understood. The incredible mixture of humiliation, embarrassment and sheer confusion created a bitter ratio which tipped in favour of befuddling his mind entirely. This must’ve been what true confusion felt like. Complete indistinguishable emotion which throbbed in his gut, swirled in his veins. He felt queasy, his body warring with him. He wanted to throw up, to pee, to turn the water to frigid temperatures and just sit there. Feeling both hot and cold, he both shivered and sweated, the water doing nothing but sliding slickly down him, as if he was covered in oil. 

How could he have just let that happen, let Douglas of all people stumble in on his dirty little secret, he’d never know. Despite the event still fretting his mind, the stark image of Douglas flicking the lamp on, the room awash with a dirty amber glow as the man’s dark, impossible eyes flittered down to the cooling, damp patch between Martin’s thighs, spreading across the sheets like oil on water. He decided then that something, or possibly someone, although that particular notion was rapidly fleeting with all conceivability in his mind- had it out for him. Had made it their sole obligation to completely and utterly destroy whatever dignity he had left. 

And he had the sneaky suspicion it was himself. 

_It’s almost as if you are purposefully carrying your own roadblock around with you._

Oh god how he wished that weren’t true. 

Unfortunately however, it seemed plausible enough. 

Martin blinked, shaking away the stray droplets of water that clung to his lashes, scrubbing the meaty bar of soap against his skin, his thighs feeling raw as he soaped them thoroughly. His bladder tingled, the need to urinate spiking his up his groin, prickling his gut with sour little sparks that demanded some form of bodily purge. 

“Fuck...” The whisper was soft, painful in the fog of heat that misted against his body. The rushing sound of water against his ears, crashing, sharp, wet sounds dripping everywhere-

His palm shot out, curling against the cold shower tiles and he leant forward, pressing his cheek against it, eyes stubbornly squeezed shut as the tingling in his hips intensified, and the electricity buzzed in the small of his back. He felt so tense, so wound up, every muscle in his body coiling tightly. Letting go was difficult in itself, no easy feat for Martin, who always had to be in control- who had responsibility thrust on him at such a young age, who had to manage every aspect of his life on his own, to decide what was more important, food or petrol. So much to do, so little money and time, and more often than not, the peak of his frustrations would almost tip him toward the precipice of madness. 

Thus he wasn’t surprised when in his adult life, he found he still wet the bed. Disappointed perhaps that things turned out the way they did to warrant no change in the tension boiling in his blood, but not surprised. Things did not get easier, did not straighten out on a path he could follow and know exactly what he was doing. Which made letting go and releasing anything, let alone all that close knit tension, that much harder. 

His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, eyes throbbing as they squeezed tighter, and white spots blinked before them. Then finally, finally the pressure softened and sparked south, his penis twitching slightly as the gold stream slid down the shower wall and swirled into the water. 

“Damn it,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to the wall and watching sullenly as his bladder emptied itself with one final spurt. His mother’s words rang in his ears, Douglas’ expression firmly planted in his mind. 

_Grow up._

And he stood there, chest tightening, skin tingling as the scalding water numbed him, trying to figure out if he was crying, or if it was just the shower. 

****

He stepped out of the bathroom, the towel fuzzy and warm around his waist, his skin clammy as it cooled in the crisp, dry air of their room. The lamp was on, the bulb flickering slightly as the meagre outlet struggled to power the damn thing, bathing the room in a dirty, golden glow. The blinds were still open, the dark wash of the outside sky and the faint glimmer of the moon shinning in, stretching shadows across the floor and Martin stared at it for a moment, his toes curling away from the strand of black that clawed at his feet. 

He raised his eyes, slowly, nervous like a rabbit caught under the stare of a fox. Douglas blinked back, seated on the bed, expression blank save the customary arch of his inquisitive eyebrow. 

“Better?” 

Martin swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of his own nudity. His fingers flexed around the fat roll of towel around his hip, keeping it tucked tight toward him. 

He nodded and croaked. “Yes thank you.” God his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, worrying the plump flesh nervously as Douglas watched him. 

“I changed the sheets,” the older man said, sparing a glance toward them. “I asked one of the staff to bring some more up.”

Martin blanched. “What did you say?” Oh god. 

_Oh god please not that-_

Douglas stood up, clad in his boxer shorts and a clean white t-shirt. It was creased slightly, rumpled and Martin tried to remember if Douglas went to bed wearing that. But he was already asleep, he wouldn’t have known- _oh god what if I-_

He blinked, imagining the dark grey patch of damp just at the edge of the white cotton, wet, pressing against Douglas’ skin, stinging as piss did on skin. Martin swallowed hard and willed the image away; _No._

“I said I spilt some water on the bed,” Douglas replied calmly, his voice level, as if to broach no panic from Martin. His arms crossed over his chest, dark chocolate eyes hovering over the sheets. “What did you want me to say?”

Martin’s throat seized up, chest tightening and he shook his head. “It was an _accident_.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“Then stop bloody looking at me like that!” Martin’s fingers tightened into the towel, knuckles bleached white. 

Douglas made no move, did not once let his eyes switch, glance into something else other than pure impartiality. The man wasn’t like that- he wasn’t supposed to be this understanding. After everything he put Martin through, mocked like it was the funniest thing in the world- his height, his hair, the state of his life, treating this as if it was nothing was so...was so...

So completely befuddling, Martin could not help but feel he had missed something. Something had to happen, Douglas had to tip it into his favour. _He always did._

“Like what?”

Martin faltered, breathing stuttering in his chest. “Like...like...”

There was a brief moment of silence as Martin stood there, caught on the cliff of indecision, of confusion. What exactly was it that he was supposed to be thinking? After months, years of agonised preparation, of tormented scenarios of Douglas finding out, this smug, calculating man laughing at him as his suspicions were confirmed that Martin really was a colossal baby, for all of that to be rendered suddenly ineffectual, Martin could not help but be confused. 

He stood there, eyes stinging, his throat constricting as he thought and wavered and theorised when really, there was no need for it. His bladder throbbed, stomach plunging and he wanted to be sick.

“Martin...”

Martin looked at him, eyes glassy and he tried to blink the fog in them away, feeling his cheeks burn crimson. Douglas looked at him, and for the first time that night, Martin saw something else other than cool indifference. 

He saw sympathy. 

“Don’t...” he croaked, mouth sandpaper dry. “It was an accident. I drank too much earlier.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Still though.”

Douglas sighed, scrubbing a rough hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. They stood there in waning silence, awkward before it snapped. “Do you have any clothes left?”

Martin considered this, embarrassed. “No....They’re...” 

_Wet._

The other man nodded and turned to his bag, sitting on the dresser. He unzipped it and threw a t-shirt at Martin. “Here. Underwear?”

Martin blushed. “N-no I have some, thank you.”

“Alright.”

Martin stared at him for a moment, lost slightly in his bout of puzzlement and mortification. He turned toward the bed, grabbing his bag and searching for his spare boxer shorts. He only realised a moment later Douglas was still in the room, and not only still in the room, but watching him with his impossibly dark eyes, which looked almost black in the faint light. 

Martin’s cheeks flushed and he opened his mouth to say something. But what exactly? _Excuse me Douglas but you’re making me feel a little uncomfortable?_

Was it discomfort though? That clenching sensation in the pit of his stomach?

Or something else entirely?

Cheeks burning, his blush blooming down his neck and across his shoulders, Martin shrugged his towel off, the soft white fluff pooling around his feet. His body burnt, as if on fire as he reached a leg up and slid the cotton boxers on with ease. He pulled it up over his hips, the elastic snapping softly in the air before chancing a glance at Douglas, who was still watching him impassively. 

Martin blinked at him, feeling flushed and dazed, his fingers twitching beside his hips. However before he could even spare a thought toward what was happening, Douglas stepped forward, picking up the t-shirt he had handed to the man and bringing it to Martin’s head. 

“Lift,” he murmured softly, and his lips glistening, damp. Martin stared at them, the white flickers of light mesmerizing as he complied. Douglas slipped it on, helping his arms into the holes before tugging it down, the pads of his fingers drifting across Martin’s arms as he pulled away. 

“There.” 

There was a moment of brief wonderment, the two staring at each other, unable to discern whether breaking the inevitable quiet which had descended was a good idea or not. Martin’s bewilderment continued to spike, everything he thought would happen sliding away like water down a drainpipe. He didn’t know if it was a relief, or something he should have been more worried about. 

Douglas’ eyes softened. “Get some sleep. Early start tomorrow.”

And as Martin watched him, followed him as the man slipped into his side of the bed and flicked the lamp off, he couldn’t help but wonder if he really knew him at all. 

He’d save that thought for another time though, and wrapped himself in the flimsy duvet, closing his eyes and trying not to think about the soft brush of skin against his calf. 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- I hope you're enjoying it! It's my first foray into writing anything like this, so comments have fast become my gold. They make me all warm and fuzzy inside so please let me know what you think. :) Next chapter should be up soon I hope. <3


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